SelfFulfilling Prophecy
by AStormIsBrewing
Summary: You know something is wrong in the world when even the fortunetellers do not trust their craft.


Disclaimer: I own Miyoka the old-as-dirt fortuneteller and a deck of tarot cards. That's all.

Kyuzo may be my favorite character, but I can't deny that he scares me just a little. I'm afraid of reprisals, when all I want to do is philosophize.

And I really like to beat symbolism to death. Tarot cards are more fun in hindsight.

Takes place early in the series.

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**Self-Fulfilled Prophecy**

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It was easy to slip into monologue with the man in the red coat. He deigned to speak so little it was as if he was some life-sized doll, but his demeanor always caused the old fortuneteller's smile to freeze, though it never faltered in the presence of the Young Lord.

How ignorant must the merchant-lords be, to sit so easy in their skin while death rolled off of the blond man in waves that would steer away any man even slightly attuned with the universe? Or woman, for that matter. She adjusted her shawl as best she could, rubbing her boney hands together as the Young Lord examined the cards that lay before him. Tarot was the least of her arts, a cheap parlor trick that would pay her bills and keep the nobility of the world entertained and happy.

Men who held business in highest regard should not have put so much weight on fortune. Fate was the purview of men with destiny. Any true gift of the fortuneteller would be wasted on reading such a man, and at any rate, it was so blocked and clogged by the presence of the samurai that the old woman for the first time in her life tried to suppress and ignore it.

A useless gesture.

"These cards are very similar to the ones that were pulled last time."

The old woman looked up, her eyes crinkling in a sour smile. "Your destiny cannot have changed much in the space of a week, Young Lord."

"Strength is new. That would be the one to hope for in my position."

"She tells an old tale," the fortuneteller sighed, her exhalation rattling her bones like old tree limbs in a breeze. "Upright, she means an unconquered heart and magnetic personality. Reversed, she is a danger to herself and others. As she sits now, she must use restraint and patience if she wishes to win her battle."

The fortuneteller again glanced to the blond man. At one-hundred and four years old, Miyoka thought she had little to fear. Her long life was well-earned, and death could not be so far off, no matter how it came. She no longer cared to sugar-coat her readings. But here, in the presence of the blond man she nearly fell back to old habits of survival. If these merchants did hold his strings, then death indeed could be swift and unseen. If they did not, then his bored glance made her shudder all the more.

The Young Lord took a bite out of an apple from a nearby fruit bowl, chewing loudly. Miyoka suppressed a cringe as spray from his mouth fell onto her cards. Even her youngest great-grandchildren knew better than to eat with their mouths wide open. "I do not like this," he said simply. "You can have no more to tell me of destiny. Kyuzo, escort her out. See that she understands she is not to come back."

The Young Lord swept out of the room, daintily prancing on to whatever next caught his interest. Miyoka again let out a long, shuddering breath, shuffling her cards and placing them in front of her. There was so little hope in a world these people used as a playground.

She again glanced to the bodyguard –had the Young Lord called him Kyuzo? With her failing eyes, it was difficult to make out any feature beyond his hair, and certainly not what weapon he carried. But he had the bearing of a war-tested samurai, and his bloody, disturbing aura. . . . Had she been a younger woman, she would have been gone from the palace before the Young Lord had even thought to wish her gone. As it stood, she took her chance, and flipped the top card.

"Two swords. I suppose it's not unfitting." She swept the cards into a worn leather pouch and picked up her cane. Her hips, her knees, her back all protested the movement loudly as she hobbled into the hallway. Kyuzo was waiting for her, patiently or impatiently; it was impossible to tell. "If I stood in your boots, I would trust my enemies more than my friends, too."

They set off through the palace compound, and Miyoka was thankful of the slower pace he set, even if it might have irked an active man to move at such a speed –a noble would have had her running down the halls if it pleased them. Over the span of her life, Miyoka had witnessed the degeneration of the samurai from noble warrior to common brigand and mercenary, but this young man must have had the old teachings locked in his head somewhere.

Respect for your elders. A rule that was so little observed in the city. Miyoka had the strongest sense that the samurai only followed those rules because it pleased him. Again the old woman shuddered.

"Turn here."

The words seemed to come from nowhere, and Miyoka jolted to a stop. Such an unnerving young man. . . . Still, she followed his blurred form down the correct hallway that began to focus in her vision. "At my age these halls all begin to bleed into one another."

Any other man would have made small talk –_I suppose you have seen many in your days_ or _I should hope I never live to be so old._ Unnerving silence was all that met her remark.

"At my age I do not fear much, young man," she said by way of chastising his quietude. "But you have got me all up in stitches. I am old and helpless. Certainly not worthy to even test your sword's sharpness. If you can be anything beside taciturn and intimidating, I beg that you would do so."

"I cannot."

The old woman sighed. "At least you are honest."

Then, lo and behold, speech. "They say that no enemy can kill me," he said without preamble. "You are a woman of prophecy. Do you know that to be true?"

'_Has it ever occurred to you that you may have died several years ago, but Death cannot gather up the courage to tell you?'_ she thought she might say. Instead she settled on, "Death finds us all in his time. If no enemy can bring about your death, I imagine the possibilities that are left open are not lost upon you, not when the most meaningful relationships you have are with your enemies."

"Is that what your cards tell you?"

Mockery and sarcasm did not color his voice, but the words did have their intention, and Miyoka grumbled in reply: "It does not take cards to know you prefer to keep your own company."

Miyoka again thought back to the card she had pulled. 'Two Swords' was usually innocuous, part of a larger set, and certainly not as desired or romantic as those of the major arcane cards. It did not say one thing about someone's personality. It only served as a warning that things were not always what they seemed; that enemies are in their own way blessings.

"It is certainly one way to survive in this world, but it is no way to live," Miyoka said, nodding at her own advice. "And with your pride, I find it hard to believe that you would bow your head to a man you do not respect."

"It passes the time."

"A man like you knows he does not live to 'pass time,'" muttered the old woman. "We live to live. That is the nature of humanity. You are not in accordance with it where you stand." Stairs were coming up soon, she knew, and then she would be away from this god-forsaken castle. For now, at any rate. She tapped her cane along the ground when her guide stopped, and found the steps; a slight discoloration was the only difference she could see.

She turned back and bowed to take her leave, her joints popping with every motion. "It is not a state which shall last long. Your spirit wishes for a challenge, and your soul will demand nothing less."

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**A/N:** So while I was doing my version of research for this little drabble, I was looking through the descriptions of the tarot cards and tried to find one that fit Kyuzo's situation at that point in the story. It only occurred to me afterwards that he carries two swords. It was a major 'doh!' moment for me, but it happens. I look at the abstract and sacrifice details that would make it that much more meaningful. But still, I think it's funny. . . .

Also, there are a few shout-outs to Cicero in here, just because 'On Duties' made swiss cheese of my brain. You know the old man would have words for our favorite blondie.

While writing this, I kept jumping from listening to Fake It by Seether, Starlight by Muse, and, oddly enough, Eye of the Tiger. You know Kyuzo's still got it, no matter how stoic or ridiculously calm or uninterested he acts most of the time. He lives (or lived, for those of you who believe the Chuck Norris of Japanese cinema can actually be killed) for the fight. Rocky would be proud, man.

Sigh. The writer in me knows why he had to die(both metaphorically and logistically), but the fangirl wants blood. Specifically, cute little dumb boy's blood.

Please review before I put in any more references to Phaedrus or Cicero or Rocky III.


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